


you give me miles and miles of mountains (and i'll ask for the sea)

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 10:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18589744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: Balon Greyjoy is dead and the game shifts.(AKA the 'What if Theon married Catelyn' AU literally no one was asking for :p)





	you give me miles and miles of mountains (and i'll ask for the sea)

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere between AGOT and ACOK. An extremely cracktastic au in which I posit the theory that the Red Wedding might have been avoided if Robb had just let his friend get it on with his mom (I’m kidding…but…that’s basically what happens). #sorrynotsorry Cat is looking for a distraction, and Theon's just a dumb boi who catches feelings.

**You Give Me Miles and Miles of Mountains (And I’ll Ask for the Sea) 1/?**

 

Balon Greyjoy is dead and the game shifts. 

Overnight Theon senses the change. Where once he was barely tolerated, he is now seen by Robb’s bannerman as, if not an equal, then something nearly as good. An ally.

He is Lord Greyjoy. It is hard to feel it, when he’s so far from home. These greenlanders don’t understand. They think a man only need be born to a thing for it to be his. But an Ironborn must take what he wants, be it women, or ships, or stores.  _ Or kingdoms. _

And yes, while Pyke is Theon’s by rights, it has been so long. He does not know if he can guarantee his people would support Robb’s cause, at least not while he is uncertain how he might be received should he journey home after so long a captive. He is careful to keep these worries to himself.

Theon does not mourn his father. Not as he should. Not as Robb did those months ago when word came of Lord Stark’s fate in King’s Landing. It would be easy to blame the Starks for plucking him from his home and making him a stranger to his father, but deep down, Theon knows the truth of it. Balon Greyjoy was a stranger to his son long before Lord Stark took him away.

His father’s passing is not all grim tidings and newfound troubles. With it, Theon finds a strange freedom. For the first time since he was a boy he need not act so beholden and damn grateful to be a hostage. He is in a position to _ask_ something of the Starks.

It is Robb who first suggests a northern match. 

They are in the king’s rooms at Riverrun. Robb has dismissed his councilors and his Frey squire, and only Theon and Grey Wind remain. It is almost as it was before, at Winterfell, when lessons with Ser Rodrick and stealing kisses off of kitchen maids were the greatest of their cares not wars and kings. A skin of strongwine is passed between them.

Theon tells Robb of the camp follower who warmed his tent in the days after they met Jaime Lannister in the field, a pretty riverland girl with black curls and a mouth made for sucking cock. The tale has the boy king turning pink about the ears but succeeds in making him laugh when Theon shares of his troubles in sneaking the girl back out of his tent in the morning.

“You should think less of bedding whores and more of taking a Lady Greyjoy,” Robb admonishes.

The suggestion is made in friendship, but Theon is not a fool. He knows what Robb means to gain from it. He would have Theon wed one of his bannerman’s kinswoman. Theon can picture it, some plain-faced, northern girl to better tether Theon to Robb’s cause.

“Are you so eager for your own bride you seek to make matches for all your men?” Theon japes.

Robb’s face sours at the mention of the nameless Frey he will one day have to wrap in his cloak.

“A northern bride would demonstrate your loyalty.”

“I thought I had already done so when I pledged you my sword and bled at your side.”

Robb looks somewhat chastened for his words, but he does not take them back.

“My bannermen...the last time they called their banners it was to fight your lord father. A marriage alliance would ease many minds.”

“So that’s it then? Your Lord Cerwyn has failed to put his daughter in your bed so now you would put her in mine, eh?” Theon tries to tease, burying the hurt that Robb should trust him so little.

Robb laughs.

“It does not have to be Jonelle” he teases back. “Not unless you have your eye on her.”

Theon scoffs, but there is something in what Robb says that catches Theon’s interest.

“You mean, I have a say in choosing the wench?”

Robb considers him a moment before nodding.

“With my leave, of course.”

It is more liberty than Robb shall be granted in choosing his bride. Such luxuries are beyond kings.

The wineskin is passed in silence for a time. It heats through Theon’s blood, sour and strong. Perhaps it is why he is bold enough to speak. Or perhaps it is the red comet that stains the sky overhead. Men have credited it as a portents for all manner of things. Perhaps _that_ is what drives Theon to this madness.

“Catelyn Stark.”

“What?” Robb looks up at him. The name hangs between them in the stillness.

“My bride,” Theon wets his lips, soldiering foolishly onward. “My _choice_ is Catelyn Stark.”

Robb scowls, seizing the wineskin from Theon with a petulant swipe.

“That isn’t funny,” he grouses, drinking deep.

It is not too late. Theon might still play this off as a poorly made joke. It is not too late...

“I am serious. I want her for my Lady Greyjoy.”

Theon watches as Robb’s face crumbles and remakes itself of steel.

“Have you gone mad?!?”

“Robb, she is--”  
  
“She is my _mother_! She is grieving! My father--”

“Is gone!” Theon interrupts. “And I am sorry for that. But someone will ask for her eventually, Robb. She is still young, and beautiful, and of a good name.” 

He is not the only one who looks upon Lady Catelyn with hungry eyes, of that Theon is certain. He thinks on the widowers and bachelor lords that march with them. Old men, many of them. Coarse and worn. All of them unfit for a beauty like Catelyn Stark.

“It would bind me to your cause by blood,” Theon adds quietly, fervently.

_It would make us kin. Like true brothers. Please, Robb._

“You go too far” it is _King_ Robb who speaks now, fury in his voice. Grey Wind has risen from his place at the hearth. The direwolf bares his teeth. Fear licks its way up Theon’s spine.

“As you say, your grace.”

Theon manages a short bow, heart in his throat, before fleeing from the room.

Later, when he is alone in his own chambers, too drunk and too tired to find some serving girl to warm his bed, his reflects on the folly of his choice.

While he was asking for the moon, mayhaps he should have asked for Sansa’s hand instead? It had been a boyhood dream of his. To wed pretty little Sansa and be named Eddard Stark’s son for true. But that was a child’s dream. Theon knows better. Wanting Robb’s maiden sister would be reaching too high. Besides, she is in King’s Landing. She is to be a _queen_ , if the Lannisters have their way with her. A far less tangible temptation.

_Not like Catelyn._

There are not many women to be found on their campaign. Oh yes, there’s the Lady Maege, fierce and old and plain with her morningstar and her passel of chainmailed daughters. Whores too, and kitchen maids and serving wenches now that they are encamped at Riverrun. But none are Catelyn Stark, sitting proud and regal at her son’s side in council, her auburn hair bound back in braids, glinting in the candlelight like a flame. 

* * *

Theon wakes with an aching head, a powerful need to piss, and Robb’s squire standing anxiously over him.

“Fucking hells!” he grimaces, shielding his face with one hand from the sunlight that fills the chamber now that the bed hangings have been pulled back. It’s well past midday.

“Beg pardon, my lord,” Olyvar Frey shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. “The king summons you.”

Dread sweeps over Theon like wave as he recalls his drunken stupidity from the night before. Whatever kinship had knit him to Robb’s side is gone now. Destroyed by Theon’s own foolishness. He is what he has always been now. Hostage. Ironborn. _Traitor._

And now he has gone too far.

Theon has lived in fear of this day for ten years. He always knew it would come, could feel it hiding in the shadows, lurking, _waiting_ for him. When struck with one of his more melancholy moods, he’d sometimes sit and ponder what crime would bring it about. A mislaid word? A look?

“His grace means to take my head himself, does he?”

Of course Robb would. Theon hadn’t forgotten. The Starks keep the old ways and have no use for a headsman. How many times had he accompanied Lord Stark on such a purpose, watching as he served out cold Northern justice with a swing of his own hand? (And how many times had Theon woken in a cold sweat, with visions of the greatsword Ice baring down onto him in the night).

Mayhaps Robb will feed what’s left of him to Grey Wind. He seemed near enough to doing so last night, after Theon talked out of his arse and ruined everything.

“Get me some wine,” Theon barks, his fear buried deep where this Frey boy cannot see. If he must die, he will die a man and not a sniveling child. He fumbles to pull on the boots he left by the bed and then makes for the chamber pot.

“My lord?” the squire blinks stupidly at him.

“And some bread and cheese. A dead man is allowed a last meal, is he not?” Theon tosses over one shoulder with practiced carelessness. He unlaces his breeches, his hands trembling.

“My lord, I’m not sure I understand you,” young Frey says, hesitating.. “The king has sent me, because he would speak with you about your marriage contract to Lady Stark.”

“What?!”

A stream of piss misses the the chamber pot and dribbles onto the toe of Theon’s boot.

“Your marriage?” The boy looks uncomfortable, his eyes averted from where Theon stands, breeches and mouth gaping open. “The king would summon you to his chambers to discuss the terms of a marriage between his lady mother and your lordship.” This little speech is made haltingly, as though Olyvar has taken pains to memorize it. He beams, relieved when it is done.

Theon only stares, his mouth opening and closing helplessly, like the trout that decorates the banners that fly over the keep.

He cannot comprehend what has changed from the night before. He can only seize upon one thing.

_A marriage. A marriage to Catelyn Stark._

“Fuck.” 

* * *

Theon wears his best black velvet on his wedding day, his tunic cut with colored silk, the sigil of his house stitched proudly on his cloak. The northern lords have teased that he spends too much thought and coin on his appearance, but it seems important that he should look comley on this of all days.

It is not until he stands before a dozen witnesses, that cloak draped heavy on his bride’s shoulders, that he feels the weight of what he has done. He can feel Robb’s eyes, stern and accusing, boring holes into his back as he brushes a perfunctory kiss to Catelyn’s cheek at the septon’s prompting.

And just like that it is finished. They are man and wife. Lord and Lady Greyjoy.

Something uneasy quells in Theon’s gut at the thought. It does not feel as he thought it would. He is no more Robb’s brother than before. He is no Stark. He has only managed to turn one into a kraken. It is a betrayal he did not intend.

There is a small feast held in the hall. It is a somber thing, the war and the ghost of Eddard Stark hanging over the proceedings like a shroud. Still, Lord Hoster’s table provides pheasants, and pies, and haunches of roast venison, with plenty of ale and wine to wash it down. Theon drinks more than his fill.

He tries to put on an appearance of good cheer, toasting both his king and his bride. He can feel the way the Northern lords watch him, their eyes hard in judgement. A few mutter under their breath when Theon gives a serving girl a smile that borders on roguish, while his tankard is refilled for the third time. _Good_. Better they take notice of that than how his hand shakes as brings the cup to his mouth.

Beside him, his lady is a woman carved from stone. He’d tried to play the gallant at first, offering her choice bites from their shared plate and grandly insisting their winecup be filled with the best Lord Hoster’s cellars have to offer. These considerations are received just as stiffly as his cloak and kiss had been before the septon.

Catelyn has not touched a bite. She _has_ sipped from the winecup though, often enough that it needs refilling before the meal is midway through. Theon tries not to see insult in this.

In deference to her position as the king’s mother, there is no bedding. Instead, Catelyn retires early, escorted on her uncle’s arm. Theon lingers in the hall a while longer.

He is not the same untested youth who rode out from Winterfell’s gates. He has seen battle. He has watched men bleed and draw their last breaths. But the fear he felt at the Whispering Wood is nothing to the fear of facing his lady wife.

Theon comes to his wedding bed to find Catelyn already under the coverlet. She is in her shift, her hair unpinned from it’s nets to spool in gleaming curls across her shoulders and the fine skin at her collarbone.

It is a sight born out of some fevered dream. The forbidden lady of Winterfell, in his bed. His to have, to take, to _fuck_. How often had he spilled into his own hands with such impossible imaginings?

She watches as he places the bar on the door.

“Have you come to take your rights, my lord?”

He could. He _should_. But under her hard stare, Theon feels every bit the boy he must seem to her.

“Not until you wish it, my lady,” he swears to her, telling himself he is playing the gallant (and not the craven).

His answer has taken her by surprise for she pauses a moment before breathing out a derisive scoff.

“As you will, _my lord_.” She settles upon the pillow, giving him her back, the coverlet tugged all the way to her chin.

Theon hesitates at the bed’s edge.

When he had donned them, he had not thought that he would remove his wedding clothes alone. He makes quick, miserable work of it. He toes off his boots and kicks them to some odd corner of the room. His fine black velvet tunic is tugged with more violence than warranted, catching painfully on his ear as it’s pulled overhead. He tosses it to join where he sees his lady has already left the Greyjoy cloak he gifted her in a heap by the hearth. His breeches he leaves by the bed, before he moves to snuff out the candle and cast them into shadows. He crawls in beside her, though there is a wide expanse of cool mattress that separates them.

All is still and quiet, save for Catelyn trembling beneath the bedclothes. Even in the South, autumn has begun to creep into the air at night. Theon thinks to offer to put another log on the hearth (or mayhaps suggest some other way they might keep warm...preferably one that involves his mouth on those glorious teats). Then he hears it. The telltale wet inhale for breath.

_Tears._

Theon stares at the canopy in helpless horror. He has little experience with weeping women. But the longer he feels Catelyn shaking beside him the more he feels he must do _something_.

“My lady?” He lays a tentative hand on her shoulder, gently turning her to face him. “Are you well?”

The tears come faster now, coursing through her in great hiccoughing sobs. She crumbles towards him, her hands reaching to clutch him closer and beat on him in feeble swipes. Frightened, Theon is unsure how to react to such an assault. He can smell the wine on her breath. She is speaking between gasps, but he can make little sense of it. Little beyond a single word. A name.

_“Ned.”_

Guilt and sorrow overwhelm Theon in equal measure.

Catelyn weeps herself to sleep, curled in on herself like a child, her foolish boy-husband paralyzed with fear beside her.

Theon doubts there has ever been so cold and sorry a marriage bed.

* * *

It is a colder bed still when he wakes to find her gone. He is of half a mind not to seek her out, but the memory of her sobs send him from their chambers on a search through her father’s keep.

He finds her in the godswood.

It is not so great as the one in Winterfell, more garden than wood, but Riverrun can still boast a weirwood for its hearttree; a rare thing so far south of the Neck. Theon glances away from the carved face. There is a sorrow to it that makes it hard to look upon. Instead he looks at the woman knelt before it.

“My lady?” he ventures, softly. Hesitantly.

He does not think he interrupts her at prayer. These are no more her gods than they are his.

Catelyn remains kneeling. She does not acknowledge Theon’s presence, and her silence makes him uneasy. Coward that he is, he thinks to flee. To leave the judging eyes of the weirwood and Eddard Stark’s gods, but then his lady speaks.

“Robb will need ships if he is to take the capital. If he is to save the girls.”

The words are directed to the heartree, not to him, but Theon hears them all the same. He hears the meaning that lies underneath them as well.

There is much that Theon does not understand about his wife, but of one thing he is certain: she will do anything for her children. The scars she bears on her hands from an assassin’s blade are a testament to it, as is her continued presence here, aiding Robb in playing at war when she might be at Winterfell, safe, and playing with little Rickon and Bran instead.

_Family. Duty. Honor_. Those are the Tully words, with family above the others. Catelyn has proved their truth time and again.

_And now she has done so in wedding me._

Theon kneels upon the earth beside her and takes her hand in his. She does not pull away.

“Robb will have his ships, my lady. I swear to it.”

He means this vow, more than any words he spoke in the sept the day before. Catelyn meets his eye at last, tears shining in her eyes.

“Good.”

* * *

When Robb’s council convenes in the days that follow, Catelyn remains in her usual place at her son’s side. Theon, however, is no longer welcomed at the Young Wolf’s right hand. Nor is he placed beside his new lady. That honor is reserved for her idiot brother followed then by her uncle. Theon finds he is supplanted by near a dozen more Stark and Tully bannermen and their sons. Though it is measured not in leagues but in table lengths, it is a banishment that is keenly felt (and one of Theon’s own making).

It is little better outside the council chambers.

Robb finds company enough with his sworn guard, sycophantic gnats who circle round him in ever thicker droves. Gone are japes shared while breaking their fasts, and sparring matches in the yard, and shared skins of wine. Robb is as lost to Theon as his true brothers. And for what?

His lady scarcely looks at him in the daylight hours. And at night? Theon is certain it is punishment for what he has done that he is now condemned to lay awake each night with Catelyn, sweet smelling and lovely in his bed, so nearly in reach and yet, as forbidden to him as when she was Lord Stark’s lady wife.

* * *

Lord Jason Mallister’s heir perhaps makes for an odd choice in drinking companions. Seaguard was built, after all, as a coastal defense against Ironborn reavers, and it was Lord Mallister himself who cut down Rodrik, the elder of Theon’s brothers, during their father’s rebellion. Still, Theon’s marriage has cast him so far from Robb’s graces, there is far less enmity to be found with a Mallister then there is at the king’s side.

Patrek is a good fellow, in any case. He shares Theon’s taste for wine and wenches and hunting. And unlike some of the lordlings here at Riverrun, he is not so hungry for advancement that he spends all his days kissing Robb’s arse.

“She’s a pretty one,” Patrek nods to a serving girl making her way through the lower tables of the hall. As with most nights, Theon’s eschewed a place beside Catelyn for Patrek’s company. He doubts his presence is missed. Ten years a hostage have taught him to know when he is unwanted.

Theon considers the girl that has caught Patrek’s eye and hums in agreement. She has a wide heart shaped face with tight brown curls that are tied back by a length of linen. Pretty, in a common sort of way ( _and a needed distraction if he is to endure another night of Cat, beautiful and warm and untouchable beside him_ ).

“What is your name?” Theon asks when she comes to top off their ales. He smiles at her and her cheeks glow rosy.

“Bess, m’lord.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Theon smiles wider. He reaches to take the wrist that does not hold a pitcher in his hand, his thumb brushing in slow circles over her skin.

“Don’t be drawn in by this rogue, sweet Bess!” Patrek scolds. “It is my duty as a Mallister to defend the fair maids of the Riverlands from Ironborn scoundrels like him!”

Theon shoots the knight an irritated look.

“Ironborn?!”

Bess stares at him with wide, surprised eyes. There is a hint of trepidation in her face, but curiosity too, for she does not pull her hand from his hold nor does she resist when Theon tugs her down to have a seat in his lap.

“Oh aye,” he grins. “Do you not know me, girl?”

She shakes her head shyly. Theon leans close so his breath ghosts near her ear.

“I am Theon Greyjoy, _Lord_ of the Iron Islands.”

Bess shivers at his words, but she does not shy away, her rump snug and sweet against him.

Theon will not bed her. His lady wife may have no want of him, but she will not look kindly on him siring bastards on her father’s household. In any case, Theon is sure Robb would make a meal out of him for Grey Wind were he to find out. Still, there is no harm in a little flirtation.

Theon passes several jolly hours this way, with Patrek’s japes and Bess on his knee, before making for his own chamber. 

He is startled to find his lady awake.

Catelyn is seated at her dressing table. The maids have already come to help her into her nightclothes, but she undresses her own hair now. For a moment, Theon is content to watch as she methodically pulls out pins and untwists coils of hair until they tumble down her back.

“My lady,” he greets, finally venturing into the room and barring the door. She does not return his greeting.

The ale that had warmed through him, and set his blood buzzing merrily when he’d been in the hall, is not enough the to soften the sting of her silence.

Theon scowls and makes for the bed, tugging at his clothes as goes. He’s just shed his boots, one hand braced on the bedpost to steady himself, when Catelyn speaks.

“In future, you will not behave so lewdly in my father’s hall.”

He knows that tone. As a lad, he received his share of scoldings from the Lady of Winterfell. And while they always left Robb shamed and set Snow flinching and miserable, they never much bothered Theon. Now though...Theon feels something born between humiliation and indignation twist across his face and course hotly in his veins.

“Is that a command, my lady?” he taunts, fingers tugging roughly on the clasps of his leather jerkin.

Catelyn regards him in the reflection of her looking glass, her face pinched with disapproval.

“It is an insult to the trust your king has placed in you. And an insult to me.”

The ale makes him bold, but there is something perversely satisfying in having stirred a reaction in his ever cold lady _(even if that reaction is only her contempt)_ that makes him even bolder.

“And what of _outside_ of your father’s hall, my lady?” He asks, his jerkin now shucked to the floor, his tunic following soon after. “How might I behave there? What am I permitted?”

Catelyn scowls at him.

“Goodnight, my lord.”

She rises from her seat, but Theon is quicker, blocking her path with a grin.

“Come now,” he edges closer, caging her between the dressing table and his body. “You do not answer me and I am in want of instruction.”

She is still frowning, but Theon does not miss the slight catch in Catelyn’s breath as he draws closer, nor the unconscious way her eyes drift to his bare chest, the surprising  _want_ he sees flicker in her face. 

“And what of my wife’s bed?” He murmurs, his cheek nearly against her own, his lips at her ear. "Is it deemed proper to act lewdly there?”

“Theon,” she warns but she says no more for Theon has stooped to kiss her.

Her mouth is soberingly still beneath his and just like that, Theon feels his courage abandon him. He makes to pull away, to beg for forgiveness, when a hand grips tight into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer.

Theon melts into her embrace, bending to her and meeting her kisses with all the eagerness of a green youth.

It is not how Theon ever imagined consummating the match _(seated at his lady wife’s dressing table, its edge digging painfully into his back, his breeches barely pushed down round his knees)_ but as Catelyn writhes above him, allowing him to lave wet kisses on her breasts while he fucks up into her in sharp, desperate thrusts, he finds he does not care. This is better than anything he could imagine.

Later, when Catelyn is nestled asleep beside him beneath the coverlet, her hair made tangled from his hands and her lips swollen from his kisses, Theon cannot help but wonder at this sudden change in his fortunes.

He is her lord husband in truth now, and though he will doubtless fail in that role in many ways, he vows he will not _here_ in their bed.

* * *

This time when Theon wakes to a cold bed, he does not go in search of his wife. Nor does he look for her when she is not in the hall to break her fast. Or at her seat in council.

But as the sun begins to set with nary a sign of Catelyn, worry overcomes pride. Theon finds a pageboy and presses him for the whereabouts of Lady Greyjoy. The lad stammers something about her attending to Lord Tully before scurrying off to his duties.

That Catelyn should be at her father’s bedside is not so strange. Theon’s goodfather’s health has been poorly from before their host ever descended on Riverrun’s gates. His daughter often spends time in his chambers, offering what comfort she can. But when her place in the hall remains empty for supper too, Theon knows it is not her father’s health that keeps her away.

_So be it. Catelyn will have her cold bed, and Robb his ships, and I shall find some girl to take for a salt wife. I’ll sire a dozen bastards upon her to fill the halls of Pyke._

The thought brings Theon little comfort. The ale in his belly, even less.

He is in a foul mood when he retires early, unable to endure any more of Patrek’s prattling.

The servants have seen to his chambers already, a fire set in the hearth. He is startled to find his lady silhouetted before the flames.

It has only been a day, but Theon realizes he is thirsty for the sight of her. He drinks her in, from her unbound hair to the fall of her bedgown to the cup of wine cradled in her hand.

“I do not want to speak of it,” she will not look at him, her words directed to the fire. It is a dismissal. Theon knows that well enough. But Theon now also knows what it is to taste her pleasure on his tongue.

_That_ is the knowledge that carries him foolishly to her side.

“I have not come to talk,” he assures her, before seizing hold of the sash at the waist of her bedgown to draw her into a bruising kiss. He expects her to strike him. It would be what he deserves. She shocks them both when she melts into him, her mouth just as desperate against his own.

There is a crash.

It’s Catelyn’s cup falling from her grasp as her hands reach to pull at his laces. Wine stains the rushes underfoot and splashes onto the toes of Theon’s boots. He cares not, bending to take Catelyn in his arms to carry her to their bed. Let the servants tend to mess in the morning.

Tonight, Theon must tend to his wife.

* * *

Theon’s days at Riverrun remain unchanged.

He attends council, several dozen seats away from his king. He spars in the yard. He drinks and he rides with Patrek. He plays at dice with the Tully men-at-arms, winning an ever growing purse of silver stags.

But at night? At night, there is now _Catelyn._

It should not be such a wonder to share a bed with one’s wife, and yet, Theon is in awe each time she comes to him, shattering apart on his mouth, his fingers, his cock.

Theon is sure he will never understand how Lord Eddard looked so grim all the time when he had such a woman in his bed.

* * *

They set out from Riverrun, though not together. Catelyn is riding south, bound for Bitterbridge and the would-be-king Renly Baratheon, whose court has gathered there. Theon is riding west at Robb’s side.

They have been idle at Riverrun for too long. Theon’s heard it in the way the men grumble into their mugs of ale since word came of Lord Stark’s death, restless and hungry to spill Lannister blood. Ser Stafford Lannister’s blood should do.

Theon had hoped for permission to sail for Pyke, to take his seat and rally his bannermen and their longships to his command. They will be needed if Robb hopes to take Casterly Rock. But Robb means to keep him close for now.

_Even with the king’s own mother in my bed I am still a hostage...and Robb my gaelor._

Theon tries not to let these thoughts sour the journey ahead. There is glory to be had on this western campaign. Glory...and things more precious to be gained. At home men dig for iron and lead and tin, but in the west the ground has richer yields. Theon means to profit by it.

_Maybe a gift for Lady Greyjoy?_ he muses, picturing a golden collar about Catelyn’s neck, inlaid with sapphires blue enough to match her eyes. _Perhaps that will make her smile._

There are enough eyes present that it is not Robb but King Robb who bids his mother goodbye with a brief kiss to her temple. Theon’s parting from his lady is even less affectionate. There is no exchange of soft words or embraces. Only his hands on her waist as he lifts her onto her saddle.

Catelyn spares as much thought for him as she would one of her father’s grooms, too busy adjusting her skirts when he releases her to bother glancing at her lord husband. She makes for an impressive sight, proud and lovely in her seat on a horse, her face set with iron. She is dressed in dark red gown and blue riding cloak, Tully colors, with her long auburn hair bound back in a net studded with freshwater pearls.

Theon would feel slighted but then he remembers how just the night before he had wrapped that auburn hair about his fist. He remembers how he had tugged at it while he fucked her from behind, pulling her closer towards him so that he might mouth along the column of her neck. He remembers tasting the sounds she made, the way the skin of her neck hummed under his tongue with every moan and sigh.

_Let her play the cold, forbidding lady on high for Robb’s men. I know the truth of her...just as I know what marks lie beneath the high neck of her gown._

Theon is about to step away from her mount when he hears her speak, low and urgent, so only he may hear.

“Watch over him.”

Catelyn is still not looking at him. She is looking at her son.

Theon takes one of her gloved hands in his own and presses a kiss over her knuckles. He grins when he sees he has Catelyn’s attention, not caring for the chastisement that brims behind her eyes.

“I will, my lady”, he vows.


End file.
